


We All Fall Down (Ashes Ashes)

by InsaneTrollLogic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s05e22 Swan Song, Gen, Kid Fic, Plotty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 14:54:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1351540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsaneTrollLogic/pseuds/InsaneTrollLogic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the days after the Apocalypse, angels fall by the dozens. No one notices. In the wake Lucifer's time on earth, a few falling stars aren't exactly news. But nearly ten years later, something is slowly wiping these newly human angels from existence. A reluctant Dean Winchester finds himself drawn forcibly back into the hunting world--a fallen angel of his own by his side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for LJ's deancasbigbang, posted 8/24/2010.  
> Art is spoilery but was done by the fantastic attempt_unique: [[Link](http://attempt-unique.livejournal.com/36766.html)]

_In the days after the Apocalypse, shooting stars fill the sky. Astronomers are baffled. It's the brightest celestial showing in recent memory and there'd been no forewarning, no signs. The show lasts about a week, trailing off with a single shooting star, flickering like a farewell.  
  
The news stations play it off as an oddity, giving it thirty seconds at the end of shows—a curious counterpart to the rampant violence of a world where Lucifer had so recently roamed. Experts find no explanation but until the ratings start to drop everyone has a theory. The seven day span will remain a choice topic for scientists at their doctoral reviews for years after but only a select few recognize the phenomenon for what it really is:  
  
In the days after the Apocalypse, angels fall by the dozen._  


 

PART ONE

  
  
When Dean wakes up, the Apocalypse is over.  
  
He doesn't realize it's over. Not when bits of Cas are splattered all over the car, nothing left of him but a blood stained trench coat. Bobby's body is lying a few yards away. His angle is so wrong that all he can see is his pair of boots and the brim of his hat. He tries to scramble to his feet but a pain shoots through him so intense that he thinks he's going to die from grief.  
  
Sam is nowhere in sight which means Lucifer is nowhere in sight. Adam either. From his slightly higher vantage point, he can make out the vaguely surprised look on Bobby's face and the red-stained trench coat filled with nothing that even resembles an angel. He feels like his stomach is splitting in two.  
  
He looks down.  
  
That's because there is an alarming amount of blood leaking through his jacket.   
  

* * *

  
He bleeds for a full day before he's found. By that time, Dean's mostly incoherent. He's managed to roll onto his side to avoid choking himself on blood or vomit but moving more than that is out of the question.  
  
He can see the stars though.   
  
It might just be his vision blurring but it looks almost like they're moving. A time lapse photo that sends shocking trails of silver streaking towards the ground.   
  
"Jesus," a voice hisses. "Jesus, man, are you all right?"  
  
"Angels are falling," Dean mutters. "It's the end of the world."  
  
"Fuck, that's a lot of blood. Just keep cool, Dean. You're going to be all right. I promise."  
  
"Chuck?" Dean's bleeding out. He estimates losing another pint will push him past the point of no return. He's surprised it's taken this long. "Chuck, is that you?"  
  
His eyesight is graying out. He can still see the vague outlines of Bobby's boots.  
  
"It hurts, Chuck."  
  
"You're going to be all right, Dean."  
  
"I don't believe you."  
  
The next six months pass in a blink of an eye.  


 

* * *

  
He loses track of how long he's in the hospital. He's out of it completely for about four months and sleeps most of the following two away. He hears the doctors speculating that he has simply lost the will to live. He thinks they may be right and decides it's as good a time as any to try being listless.   
  
Unfortunately the lack of activity in the physical realm sends his brain into high gear and he dreams instead. It seems like he can't do anything except dream. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees Bobby's body keeling over and Castiel's knees giving way just before his head explodes. Lucifer sneers at him with his brother's patented bitchface and every third night he still finds himself trashing in the throes of nightmares of Hell.  
  
During the months of self-induced silence, his body knits itself back together. The only visible sign left is the sunken left cheekbone that caved under Lucifer's fist and the newly crooked slant to his nose. The months of silence following the months of unconsciousness have convinced most of the doctors he's a possible psychiatric case so they haven't kicked him to the curb. He only checks out because the doctors won't let him drink himself into a stupor.  
  
Getting into the Impala hurts more than he would have thought possible. The goddamn toy soldier in the ash tray claws at his eyes and his brain is stuck on a permanent loop of Sam, Sam,  _Sam_.  
  
The bender lasts three days, filled with liquor, girls and two new scars. When he wakes up, there's a throbbing between his eyes that feels like it's splitting his head in two. He spends the morning swilling coffee while cursing God, the Apocalypse and sunlight before putting on his sunglasses, going to the Impala and driving seventeen hours straight to Pontiac, Illinois.  
  
Amelia Novak greets him at the front door. She looks stretched thin, her skin drawn out tight across her face. Her eyes cold and suspicions. "Dean," she says curtly. "No offense, but the last time I saw you I got possessed by a demon and my husband left me to fight the Apocalypse."  
  
Dean tries to offer her a smile. "Kind of think the Apocalypse is over."  
  
She uncrosses her arms, her eyes softening. Dean remembers this. The Novaks are good people. They deserved what happened to them even less than Cas and Bobby. "What happened?"   
  
"Jimmy's dead." It's important to put Jimmy first for once. Dean expects it's been a very very long time since Jimmy was first in anyone's minds. "Cas too. And Bobby." Sam, he doesn't say.  
  
"Jesus," she whispers.  
  
For a single wild moment, Dean wants to tell her off for taking God's name in vain, but since they're both so very far past that being the slightest bit funny, he can't bring himself to say it.  
  
"Me and Claire are about to eat dinner," Amelia says. Dean starts to turn away when he hears the offer in her voice but she catches him by the shoulders. "You're going to eat with us and you're going to tell us about all about the Apocalypse and what happened to Jimmy because I need to hear it." She tugs him inside. "And I'm guessing you really need to tell it."  
  
Dean doesn't know if he's ever had a meal this awkward. Amelia fries an extra burger and dumps fries onto his plate. Claire stares at him silently, her eyes wide. "Dad's not coming back, is he?"  
  
"No," Dean says, hiding his discomfort in a bite of burger. There's a homemade mix of spices in the meat and Dean thinks of Castiel downing over a hundred burgers because Jimmy's flesh craved it. "I'm sorry."  
  
"It's all right," Claire mumbles to her plate. She doesn't look Dean in his eyes. "We knew he was gone a long time ago."  
  
Castiel inhabited this little girl once. Dean tries to wrap his head around it. Wonders if it would have been different with anyone but Jimmy wrapped around Cas. This little girl seems a bit like Castiel right now. Like her eyes are a thousand years older than she is.  
  
"I don't know if we would have won without your dad," Dean says. "You probably already guessed but angels are grade-A dicks. I tried getting through to Castiel more than once on my own but it always took a while for anything to sink in. I always kind of figured it was Jimmy who talked some sense into him."  
  
Amelia smiles and Dean knows it had been the right thing to say even if he doesn't believe it for a second. Castiel had made his choices due to a combination of blind faith in Dean and his own sense of what was right. Jimmy had been far from the deciding factor.   
  
The Novaks coax a PG rated story out of him. One that has nothing about Sam drinking demon blood or Castiel exploding like a water balloon. After dinner Amelia insists he spend the night. He tries to protest but Claire tells him that only hobos sleep in old cars.  
  
The guest room has salt lining all the windows. Dean traces a finger over the unbroken line. Jimmy picked a good one. There's no doubting that.  
  
He can't sleep and doesn't think he can handle another guilt ridden meal with the Novaks even though he feels slightly less raw then he did before he got there.  
  
It's four AM and Claire is sitting on the porch scaring up at the sky. "Hello, Dean," she intones and it sounds so much like Castiel that for a moment he stops dead in his tracks.  
  
"How'd you know I was going to sneak out?"  
  
She turns to look at him, blond hair oddly luminous in the moonlight. "I had Castiel in my head for a few minutes. You pick up a few things about Dean Winchester."  
  
"You going to stop me?"  
  
Shaking her head, she cranes her neck back up to the sky. "I'm thirteen. You really think I could?"  
  
"Good point," Dean allows and sits down next to her on the porch, turning his own eyes skyward. "What are you looking for?"  
  
"Falling angels," Claire answers simply.  
  
"You see a lot of falling angels?"  
  
"Not so much anymore." She pauses. "You know Castiel used to think about it. He was really messed up about something but all he could think about was falling and you."  
  
Something clenches in Dean's throat. "I'm sorry I didn't manage to bring any of your Dad's things back."  
  
"Mom always hated the trench coat," Claire says and then leaves forward to hug him. It's unexpected but not unwelcome. By the time he manages to react, she's already pulled back. "Bye, Dean. It's not your fault my dad didn't come back."  
  
Dean ruffles her hair. "It's not your fault either."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
It's the first time in months his smile doesn't feel completely fake. "Remember to salt your windows before bed."  


* * *

 

It takes him more than a few months but he winds up on the doorstep of Lisa Braeden. She stares at him, slack jawed for a long moment. Dean half thinks that if he doesn't say anything they might stand there until the world really does end. "Uh." His voice sounds rusty with disuse. "I was wonder if I could take you up on that beer?"  
  
"The beer I offered you almost two years ago?" Lisa stammers after a moment.  
  
"Yeah. Is the offer still good?"  
  
Lisa slaps him across the face. Hard. "You dick, I thought you were dead!"  
  
Funny, he would have expected this from Amelia not Lisa. Dean had gotten Amelia's husband killed. The only thing Dean had done to Lisa was vanish without a trace. It had honestly not occurred to him that she'd worry. "I'm not. Guessing that beer is out of the question."  
  
"No," Lisa says. "You're not dead. This is good. I'm sorry I slapped you."  
  
"I think we stopped the Apocalypse," Dean says. "I don't remember exactly how, but if the Devil was still on Earth, I kind of think there'd be more hellfire."  
  
"I'm really glad you didn't tell me that two years ago. Like I didn't have enough to worry about."  
  
"Sammy's dead." It's like a damn breaking inside him. It's the first time he's said it aloud. He knows it's true even if there was no body. Lucifer absorbed him or Sam absorbed him and now they're just not here anymore. At least he could see what happened to Cas. What happened to Bobby.   
  
"Sam?" Lisa says, confused. It takes a moment for her to follow up, "Oh, your brother, Sam. Dean, I'm so sorry."  
  
Sam told him to find Lisa. But he doesn't know Lisa at all. Beautiful, gorgeous Lisa who was supposed to be his normal life. He can't stay here with someone who doesn't even know Sam's name. He knows it's going to turn out wrong even before he catches the glint of her engagement ring on her left hand.   
  
He sleeps on their couch for three weeks, telling Ben monster stories in his free time.  
  
Then Lisa's fiancé figures out Dean isn't Lisa's old college friend but rather her old one night stand and he finds himself back on the road.  
  
It takes two days to drive to the Grand Canyon, winding his way on back roads, driving as fast as he can without totaling the car. Himself he could care less about but dying in a tangled twist of sheet metal would be disrespectful to the one thing that has never abandoned him.  
  
The Grand Canyon is breathtaking. The colors at sunset set the entire scene ablaze. It seems to go on for miles. Dean's heard the Grand Canyon is called one of the seven wonders of the world.   
  
Castiel looked for God here once. In this sprawling expanse of natural beauty. Dean had woken up to a text message with a tiny blurry picture of something he'd only ever seen on postcards. He'd sent back something along the lines of  _u find god?  
  
No,_  Castiel had replied.  _But I think I like it anyway._  
  
Dean decides it's a good time to get spectacularly drunk, so he does just that.  
  
He wakes up folded awkwardly in the back seat of the Impala. He's placed three calls that he can't remember. The first is to Castiel. The second, Bobby. The third, placed the latest in the night to Sam.   
  
The Grand Canyon is just as beautiful in the light of the rising sun as it was at twilight. It is also just as empty.   
  

* * *

  
He boots up Sam's computer in an internet cafe in Phoenix. There's a half eaten donut in front of him along with some lukewarm coffee. His fingers are shaking as he pulls up an internet browser and types in the password to Sam's yahoo account.  
  
Most of the messages are spam, advertising things like  _Canadian Viagra_  and  _free penis enlargements._  There's also one for breast enhancements and he wants to give Sam shit for that but Sam isn't here.   
  
The messages in the inbox are almost non-existent. Most of Sam's college friends stopped contacting him when they became wanted men and the few that had refused to believe it had stopped after they'd supposedly died alongside Hendriksen and Nancy. There are a few saved messages at the bottom. One from Andy Gallagher. One from Sarah from the haunted painting gig so many years ago. Dean doesn't touch those. They're both unopened. Andy's is from the day before he died. Sarah's from about a year ago.  
  
The only other not-spam message is from Chuck Shirley. That one Dean clicks on. He can almost hear the prophet's nervous stutter in the salutations.  


> _Hey Dean,_

  
It takes him off guard for a moment. Because who sends a message to a dead man's e-mail that's intended for his brother? Especially when you have the guy's phone number. Then again, prophet. Having God kick in the door to your brain didn't exactly leave room for a whole lot of common sense.  


> _Hey Dean,_
> 
> _I have no idea if this is too late or too early or whatever to send this. But you should know that when you find him, it is who you think it is._
> 
> _Does that make any sense at all? I feel like that doesn't make any sense. But I really don't know anything but that. First vision I had in months. Let me tell you, I forgot how much this freaking hurts. But I'm guessing you're not too interested._
> 
> _It's going to get better, Dean. I mean that's not a vision or anything but it will. You deserve it._
> 
> _I hope something in this makes sense. Take care of yourself man.  
>  -Chuck_
> 
> _PS. Reading your dead brother's e-mail is creepy, dude._

  
"You were so shitfaced when you wrote this," Dean mutters to the computer screen before signing out of Sam's e-mail because Chuck's right, it is a little creepy.   
  
He gets wind of a case a few towns up. It's probably nothing but Dean's suddenly overcome by the need to do something, anything. Hunting's all he knows.   


* * *

  
The case has a body count by the time he makes it there. The worst thing about it is he can't figure out what kind of monster it is. He'd rigged up an EMF out of a walkman he'd picked up at a yard sale the day before but either he's out of practice or there's nothing here to leave a signal.  
  
The autopsy reports on the mother were brutal in a way he hadn't seen since he worked a werewolf case alongside his dad back when he was eighteen.   
  
Victim had a kid too. Gone for two days by the time Dean makes it there. Police had combed the neighborhood for him but the end result was just the same: a missing two year old named Lucas Green. He has dark hair, light eyes and in the only photograph circulated, he looks happy. The police had written him off as dead in the best case scenario, hostage in the worst.  
  
Dean feels sick to his stomach but there's also a sense of purpose that hasn't been here since the Apocalypse. He likes kids and anyone going after little kids deserves worse then Dean's worst years in Hell.   
  
The murder scene is in a nursery, the pale blue splattered in patches of dried blood that look more black than red when light by flashlight. He rolls through his mental checklist of beasts. The attack had screamed werewolf but the hearts were still there. A black dog or hell hound would have left completely different kinds of wounds.   
  
As much as he doesn't want to think it, this could easily be the work of something human. He'd almost rather fight one of those black-eyed sons of bitches.  
  
There's a muffled sound from somewhere in the closet. Unwillingly, he flashes back to Adam and the ghoul in the vents. Steeling himself for the inevitable rush of violence, he draws his gun, takes a deep breath and throws open the closet door.  
  
Nothing but a few ugly sweaters, a vacuum and a collection of sun dresses. Dean's breathing hard, waiting for the adrenaline to wear off when he hears it again. It's coming from somewhere behind the walls. He steps into the closet, the EMF in his pocket still quiet.  
  
It's been a long time since he's done this. Even longer since he's done it without backup.  
  
There's a false back in the wall. It's almost invisible so Dean taps lightly until he finds the hinge and slides it open.   
  
All at once, there's something right on top of him. Something about knee high that nearly knocked the legs out from under him. Dean pulls the gun up automatically and takes aim before the flashlight flickers across the thing's face.  
  
The thing which has a pale, scared face and impossibly bright eyes. "Fuck," Dean breathes and immediately wants to kick himself because this isn't a monster. It's a little kid. The women who'd been murdered had a little kid that the world had already written off as dead.  
  
He catches him by the shoulders as gently as he can. The little guy's shaking and cold to the touch but he fights everything. "Hey buddy, calm down. You're going to be all right. Calm down. Lucas, right? I'm Dean. It's safe now. I've got you."  
  
The kid sags against him, burying his face in Dean's shoulders. Dean can feel the dampness of his tears on his neck. He lifts the flashlight to the crawlspace where the kid had been hiding.   
  
A stack of cash and a thick black plastic bag that Dean is willing to bet is filled with something illegal. In a flash he sees the whole pictures. Classy, really, hiding a kid in the same place as you hide your stash. Kudos on being a good mom.  
  
Anger boils to the surface. What freaking right did people have to slaughter each other over drugs when he'd worked his ass off his whole life to keep them out of the way of the supernatural?  
  
The kid shifts in his arms. Dean sighs, standing up and hauling the kid up onto his shoulder. He's distressingly light for a two-year-old and keeps turning his head away from Dean but at least the tiny fists of fury have subsided. "Let's get you out of here, Lucas." Dean mutters.  
  
He looks again at the wads of cash stored in the walls and back to the solid lump in his arms. Getting mixed up in drugs is about the last thing he needs so he leaves the cash and takes the kid.  
  
He deposits him in the back seat of the Impala, putting on the seat belt even though he realizes that it's probably in violation of six kinds of safety laws. "Going to get you to the police station, buddy. Make sure we find you someplace safe."  
  
Pulling out of the driveway, he tries to plot his way back to the police. He takes the turns twice as carefully as normal, mindful of the toddler in the back seat.  
  
When he's only a block away from the police stations, the little boy in the back quietly but very deliberately says his name.  
  
"Dean."  
  
Dean glances back into the rearview mirror and for the first time notices the mixture of dark hair against big blue eyes in the back.  
  
Unbidden, Chuck's e-mail drifts to mind.  _It is who you think it is._  
  
"Holy hell," Dean hisses. "Cas?"  
  
The kid doesn't react to the name, just tilts his head sideways in an all too familiar gesture of confusion.  
  
Dean drives past the police station and keeps going.  
  

* * *

  
He checks into a hotel that's significantly more upscale then his usual ventures and herds the nearly silent child who he still can't quite think of as Castiel into the room before placing him carefully on the bed. He's asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow. Dean looks at the bed, remembers all the times Sam managed to roll straight off when they were kids and places a couple pillows on either side of the tiny body. Then he goes to the bathroom and dials Chuck. "What the hell, man?" he hisses.  
  
"Dean," Chuck says. "Hi. You got the e-mail."  
  
"Yeah and I'm really freaking interested in hearing about why I got a two year old Angel of the Lord asleep in my hotel room."  
  
"Dean, he's not exactly an angel right now."  
  
Dean continues, ignoring him completely. "Or how about the fact that you seemed to know he wasn't actually dead."  
  
"I didn't think you'd want to know that!"  
  
"Want to know? I've been alone for  _pushing three years_ , Chuck. Outside Sam, he was my best friend. I would have wanted to know he was freaking alive."  
  
"No," Chuck says, unexpectedly firm. "No, Dean, you would have tortured yourself about going to see him when he was probably happy with the family he already had. You would have torn yourself to shreds over it."  
  
"I'm already tearing myself to shreds here!"  
  
"Don't yell at me!" Chuck snaps. "It's not exactly every day I get these things after Lucifer went back down under. And it's not like you try to keep in touch."  
  
"Keep in touch?"  
  
"I've been living with you in my head for something like eight years. I'd have liked to know what was up every once in a while."  
  
Dean sits down on the toilet seat, turning a bottle of hotel room shampoo over in his hands. "It's really him though? Cas, I mean? If it's not too out of line, how the hell is he not dead?"  
  
"I sent you the pages." Chuck sounds nervous, just like he always is when he's talking about the Winchester Gospels. He's started to publish again. Dean knows it's true but as long as he avoids comic book stores and certain parts of the internet, he can pretend none of it is happening. "I think it's going to answer most of this stuff better than I can. I barely remember writing the thing."  
  
Dean sets the shampoo bottle down and nudges open the door. Castiel, Lucas Green, is asleep on the bed. He can see his chest rising and falling. Castiel's never used to do that. He'd been almost deathly still, not breathing more than necessary to talk.  
  
"What are you going to do?" Chuck asks, his voice static over the phone.  
  
"What, you didn't see it?"  
  
"No," Chuck replies and this has got to be just about as sober as he's ever heard the prophet. "But I think I know you pretty well. And I'm pretty damn sure I know what you're going to do. I think you know it too."  
  
Dean rubs his hand against his temple. "Thanks, Chuck."  
  
Chuck heaves a sigh. "Take care of yourself, Dean. Take care of Cas too."  


* * *

  
From a state away, Dean pulls up what he can about the case he'd been working and watches it unfold. They find the rival dealer who knocked off Laura Green, nothing supernatural involved. They also find the stash of heroin.   
  
They don't find the son, Lucas Green, and without a family member driving the search forward, a week passes and they stop looking.  
  
Dean turns to look at the kid. He's amassed a certain amount of kid stuff in the past few days. A car seat. A few changes of clothes for the kid and a teddy bear. He looks to the kid, the miniature version of the angel who helped him stop the Apocalypse. His head lolls against the car seat, his lips slightly parted as he slumbers.  
  
"What do you say, kid? Want to be a Winchester?"  
  
The question is more a formality than anything else. There is no way Dean is doing anything else but keeping him and Cas has been a honorary Winchester for as long as he can remember. He counts the kid's snores as a yes.  


* * *

  
There's only really one place to go. Bobby had mentioned to Dean more than once that if anything happened to him, Dean was still welcome in his home. Neither Winchester had ever let him get farther than that but he knew the end.  
  
If Bobby died, this place was his.  
  
Dean hasn't been back to Sioux Falls since the Apocalypse ended. It's a reminder of all he's lost but at the same time, he can't help but love the place. Love all the memories of Bobby scattered through the junk yard.   
  
He calls in his favor with Sheriff Jody Mills and leaves Cas at her place for the five hours while he systematically removes guns from all Bobby's hiding places and locks them up the best he can. He moves the various stashes of alcohol to high cabinets, out of the reach of a toddler's hands.  
  
When he gets back to the sheriff's house, Cas is in tears. He's tucked himself in the back of a closet, kicking the shoes out in his wake. Sheriff Mills had tried to coax him out earlier but earned nothing but screams.  
  
"His mom was slaughtered in front of him," Dean says by way of explanation. "He's a little skittish around new people."  
  
The sheriff apologizes profusely as Dean gets down on his knees and cracks open the door. He doesn't make a grab for him, he's seen his share of freaked out kids on the job. He knows that sudden moves are only going to startle. "Cas, buddy? It's Dean."  
  
The only sound from the closet is soft, muffled sobbing.  
  
But even that is wrong. Kids his age should be bawling. Big, messy, sloppy tears, not the quiet controlled ones of people who had been schooled in quiet.  
  
He doesn't know what he says to get Cas out of the closet. He's never been one for speeches. Not even in the teeth of the Apocalypse. So he just talks, keeping his voice low and even, kneeling there on the floor of an unfamiliar house as Sheriff Jody Mills watches like an interloper.  
  
It takes almost half an hour to coax the boy out but when the tiny arms wrap around Dean's waist, he smiles for the first time in what feels like years.  


* * *

  
It's almost six months before Dean has the time to look at the pages Chuck sent him. Well, when he's honest with himself, he'd put it off. He doesn't want to read Castiel's death scene just like he doesn't want to read about Bobby's or Sam's. But one night when the kid's asleep in what has become his room, Dean takes a deep breath and opens the document.  
  

> _Castiel has a plan. He'd explained it to Bobby on the long drive down to Lawrence. Bobby had called him an idjit angel, had argued that it was stupid, suicidal and likely to get him killed._
> 
> _It's not a good plan. Castiel knows that. But after the reaction from Bobby it practically has the Winchester seal of approval._
> 
> _The car ride is uncomfortably long. After Sam's failure, they both feel the sting of guilt. They supported this plan--encouraged him even--and his failing feels like their failing. They'd only talked long enough to determine what to do next._
> 
> _Dean won't let Sam die alone._
> 
> _Neither Castiel nor Bobby will let Dean die alone._
> 
> _"We're going to die," Bobby says to him just before they leave the care. "You know that, right? We're going to fight the Devil and we're going to die."_
> 
> _Castiel fidgets in the seat, turning the bottle full of holy oil in his hands. He has picked up nervous habits in the past few weeks, little ticks that make him almost human._
> 
> _But he is not human. Not yet. There is a difference between falling and Falling. Castiel has always known where that particular line lay. He's more than halfway to human, more Winchester than angel but he's not Fallen._
> 
> _"Then we die," he tells Bobby._
> 
> _Bobby claps him on the shoulder like Castiel imagines he has touched Dean hundreds of times before. He feels a rush of warmth for this man, his comrade, his family. "I'll see you on the other side, son."_
> 
> _Castiel's first instinct is to correct him. He is thousands of years older than Robert Singer, has seen things the other man cannot dream of but he stops himself because it's the first time he's ever been called son. He's never heard his own father's voice and if this man is willing to offer something that God himself is unwilling to give, Castiel cannot do anything but accept._
> 
> _It is strange to see Lucifer and Michael in possession of vessels Castiel himself has known. He cannot even see the ghost of their true forms but he can count the external differences. They both seem calmer somehow, resigned. Both Sam and Adam had been willing to fight for everything, every moment, every person..._
> 
> _He wants to go out with a bang. Some cocky quip that Dean would be proud. Bobby lights the Molotov cocktail in his hand and all he can think of is, "Hey, assbutt."_
> 
> _Lucifer rounds on him after Michael disappears and Castiel knows there is nothing more he can do for Dean, Sam and this world._
> 
> _The act of Falling is strictly governed by the laws of Heaven. Castiel has become almost completely human since the Host has cut him off but he's not become a human as Sam and Dean think. There's still a speck of angel in him. That last flicker of Grace that defines him, makes him an angel of the Lord rather than a mortal._
> 
> _"No one dicks with Michael but me," Lucifer hisses in Sam's voice._
> 
> _Castiel steps back unconsciously and it pains him that this body does things without conscious thought. It never used to before the angels blew him to bits and God brought him back without Jimmy to help him._
> 
> _He's still got a plan, and where there's a plan there's still hope. Dean will have his chance and if Dean fails and Castiel survives this, maybe, just maybe, he'll be able to take that next shot in twenty years._
> 
> _Lucifer raises his hand and Castiel reaches deep inside himself, locates that last remaining sliver of Grace and pulls._
> 
> _It's an act of Faith, an act of desperation, a vow that even if it does end right here, right now, it's not really an ending. It's The Big Fall and it hurts more than he could have imagined but there's pride in there too._
> 
> _He's dying for humanity so he can start living with them._
> 
> _He kind of likes that. This isn't the end. If he's learned one thing from Dean Winchester it's that nothing is over as long as there's still someone left to fight._
> 
> _Lucifer snaps his fingers and explodes an empty vessel._

  
"You sneaky bastard," Dean whispers fondly.   
  
The next fifteen pages are what happened to Sam in the showdown. The climatic Lucifer and Michael fight.  
  
He reads that too.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean still dreams of Hell sometimes. It's like it's been wired into his DNA. He'll think he's done with it all until something trips him off, a glint of black in someone's eyes, a flash of blonde hair that looks like Ruby or flips past the freaking Exorcist on television and the instant he closes his eyes, he's back there on the rack, a soul in front of him as Alistair offers him a knife.   
  
"This one's an awful sort," Alistair tells him. "Just a dreadful member of humanity. Managed to get countless people killed—three of them women he claimed to have loved. And that's not to mention the young woman he murdered to drink her blood or the fact that he is the one who set forth Lucifer on the world."  
  
Dean's fingers close over the hilt of the blade. His own body is throbbing under the weight of years of torment, years of denial and he wants to feel something like power again. Wants the rush that comes alongside  _control._    
  
Plunging the blade into the warm flesh, he relishes the gush of the red that spills out through the flesh. "Dean," the soul says.   
  
Only then does Dean look up to his face. "Sam?"  
  
"Dean!"  
  
Alistair is prodding him from behind. Egging him on.  
  
"Dean!" says another voice and God help him, it sounds like Cas. The angel, Castiel. His voice made of gravel; deep and broken.  
  
The hand prodding him is more insistent now and he wakes up with a start, reaching for a knife that he no longer kept there. His pillow is damp, his hands still sweating profusely as he lunges for the threat.  
  
He opens his eyes to see a pale face, dark hair, a frightened kid and stills his hand. Jesus, it's Cas--Lucas. "Dean," he says, voice small and terrified like he hasn't heard it since the kid was two.  
  
"Shit," he hisses, suddenly wide awake. "Shit, Cas, I'm sorry. Are you all right?"  
  
He's not the only one who has nightmares. Lucas screams in his sleep sometimes. Dean doesn't know if it's because of his mom getting murdered the next room or Lucifer murdering Castiel or whatever the hell happened to him up in heaven's boot camp but the poor kid has it almost as bad as Dean.  
  
Even after all this time, years, Dean's still surprised by how young the kid looks. Nine years since the Apocalypse ended. Six or so since he'd pulled him out of that closet ( _gripped him tight_  a treacherous voice whispers in the back of his head). Cas is eight years old, but can probably still pass for six. "What's wrong, buddy?" he asks.  
  
"There's a monster in my closet," he replies. His voice is steady, not a hint of fear except for the widened eyes.  
  
Dean's mind flashes to Sam before he can stop it.  _When I told dad I was scared of the thing in my closet, he gave me a .45._  He pushes thoughts of his brother away and pushes off the covers. "There's no such thing as monsters," he says automatically and thinks of Lucifer, Yellow Eyes and Lilith.  
  
Cas fixes him with a look that's two parts Sam's bitch face, one part Bobby's  _you stupid idjit_  face and six parts Castiel's  _I don't understand you ridiculous humans_  face. He repeats his statement slowly and stubbornly. "There's a monster. In my closet."  
  
_(he was supposed to say don't be afraid of the dark.)_  
  
"You scared, buddy?" The kid shakes his head no, but Dean can't think of any other reason for him to sneak into his room in the middle of the night. Dean suspects Cas is far too old to still be scared of the dark but he offers a gentle smile. "You want to sleep in here for tonight while I take care of your monster?"  
  
That one gets a nod and without prompting, Cas hauls himself into the bed, sinking under Dean's covers. Sneaky bastard. That much hasn't changed.  
  
Cas's room is right next door to his. It's the bigger of the two bedrooms in the house. Dean doesn't need much space and moving into Bobby's room would have been a little too much for his psyche. So he'd painted the old room a pale blue, cleared out all the weaponry and clutter before giving it to Cas.  
  
He knows Bobby would approve. Bobby understood family, especially the kind that came outside of blood.   
  
There actually is a monster in Cas's closet. A boogeyman. The kind of thing that's attracted to magic like the wards Dean routinely reinforces around Bobby's house. They're pests more than anything, hiding in closets and feeding off the fear of the young. Leave them alone for too long and they start to grow. Every once in a while you hear stories of kids disappearing out of their beds never to come back. Bogeymen that no one took care of.  
  
The boogeyman in Cas's closet isn't nearly to that stage. It's a tiny, ugly thing. The size of the ratty old Teddy bear Cas had cast off a year ago. It's the same color too, a brown tinged with gray. The eyes are red and it has vicious snapping teeth disproportionate to the body size.  
  
Dean grabs a baseball bat from the top shelf of the closet, takes careful aim, swings and caves in the side of its head. The boogeyman shimmers when it slams against the wall, disintegrating back into nonexistence.   
  
He takes the bat into the kitchen, washes the remnants of the boogeyman's blood from the wood and pours a bit of holy water on it to cleanse it  _(just in case)_.  
  
Cas is asleep by the time Dean goes back to the room to check on him. Eight years old and still ignorant about the world of supernatural just like the rest of the kids his age. Dean's childhood had been over by eight, his dad taking him to shoot and teaching him about salt on windshields.  
  
Dean can't go back to sleep after this so he goes outside and turns on the floodlights Bobby had installed in case of a zombie Apocalypse and props open the hood of an old Ford Firebird.  
  
He works until the sun comes up, so focused that he doesn't realize Cas has woken up until a soft voice says, "The monster's gone now. I checked."  
  
Dean starts, nearly cracking his head against the hood of the car. "Jesus, Cas, you're like a ninja."  
  
Cas grins up at him, a rare sight that brings a smile to Dean's face as well. Castiel the angel was never quite comfortable with facial expressions and he feels like Castiel the boy never had the instincts programmed into him. "I like ninjas," he says. "You got rid of the monster."  
  
"Wasn't a monster, it was just a trick of the light," Dean assures him. "Nothing you needed to be afraid of. You're safe."  
  
"I wasn't afraid. The monster's been there for days. It was getting smaller too. I just thought you were going to want to know about it. I think it would have started to smell if I was quiet another week."  
  
A rush of affection sweeps through him. Only a Winchester could starve a fear hungry boogeyman. Cas is standing too close to him, staring just a little too hard but that's normal. That's just his kid. His Cas.   
  
He wipes the sweat off his brow. "What do you say to some pancakes, buddy?"  
  
Cas always says yes to pancakes. He's got a sweet tooth even bigger than Dean.  
  
He plays the radio as he makes the pancakes. Cas hovers underfoot, peeking up under his elbows to watch the process with birdlike curiosity even though he's seen it a hundred times before. The grave voiced announcer is rumbling on about the kind of incident that Dean used to follow up on but doesn't anymore.  
  
Setting a pancake down in front of Cas and starting on a few more of his own, he reaches up to turn off the news. "Don't," Cas says. "I want to hear."  
  
"Kind of gruesome, kiddo," Dean says. The radio has been spewing words like family slaughtered, eight year old son missing. It feels like deja vu. He remembers four different stories like this over the past three years. They'd always caught his eye causing him to track the progress of the investigation, that little tickle of hunter's instincts that refuses to leave. "You're a bit young to be listening to stuff like this. World's a scary place."  
  
"My mom died because of something like this," Cas says matter-of-factly as he squirts a dollop of whip cream onto the pancake and takes a bite. "I want to hear it."  
  
Dean hesitates and then bumps the volume.  
  

* * *

  
Cas comes across the picture about two weeks before school ends for the summer. He's rooting through one of Bobby's old boxes of junk at the time and Dean guesses he should be happy the kid hasn't turned up a gun.  
  
"It's you," Cas says, turning his head slightly as he studies the picture.  
  
It's one of Bobby's war book photos. The whole box is filled with them, the tiny Polaroid's chronicling twenty years or more of hunts and hunters. It's the four of them in this one. Dean, Sam, Bobby and Castiel huddled together on the night just before the end. Dean's in the middle of it, half drunk because it was their last light on Earth, one arm over Sam's shoulder, the other over Castiel. Castiel is the same as he remembers, wearing the same trench coat, the same suit, the same slightly pained expression he'd worn since he strolled back from the banishing spell as a functioning human. Bobby has his arms crossed over his chest like he can't believe he has to stop an Apocalypse with these idiots.   
  
Sam looks half terrified, half resigned. He's the only sober one of the group, the kingpin of their plan. Sam Winchester who wrested back control of the Devil only to jump into the cage and trap them both.  
  
It doesn't feel like it happened almost a decade ago. It feels like it happened last night.  
  
"Who are these other people?" Cas asks, tracing their faces with the tip of his finger.  
  
Dean moves to sit down next to him on the floor. "Let's see," he says. "The older guy in the middle is Bobby. He's—" Dean hesitates. "You know how I'm not your blood but still family? That was Bobby for me. This used to be his house."  
  
Cas turns to look at him blue eyes wide. Dean remembers how it was when he was a kid. How it was almost impossible to think of other people living in the same place before him, someone else owning the Impala...  
  
"What about the others?"  
  
Dean lets his fingers trail to Sam, his heart clenching. "That's Sam. Sammy. My little brother."  
  
"Didn't know you had a brother," Cas mumbles. "Why haven't I met him?"  
  
"He was gone before you were born." There's something wet building up on the edges of his vision.   
  
Cas either doesn't notice or chooses to ignore the emotion coating Dean's voice. He'd bet on the latter. They have a rule against mushy chick flick moments. "How about this one?"  
  
"Castiel," Dean says, the angel's full name uncomfortably long on his tongue.   
  
Squirming a little Cas turns around and demands. "How do you know him? Where is he?"  
  
Dean hesitates for a long moment, unsure of how to explain Castiel to this minute human version of him. He can't use words like angel or soldier because Cas takes everything he says at face value and he definitely can't tell a kid he knew him in his past life. "He was probably my best friend," Dean says finally. "He left about the same time Sam did."  
  
Only for Dean to find him again two years later.  
  
Cas seems satisfied with the answer, turning back to the photograph to study Castiel. "He looks like me," Cas declares firmly.  
  
"Yeah, he does."  
  
The photograph ends up on the refrigerator because Cas decides Dean's family is important.   
  
It hurts every time he looks at it but he's proud of Cas all the same. Family is important.  
  
The next morning Cas is sitting on the foot of his bed. For a moment Dean thinks he's somewhere else, some other time as an angel in a trench coat looms over him before sending him into the past. "Cas," he mumbles.  
  
"I dreamed I was falling."  
  
"You what?"  
  
"Falling," he repeats, crawling into bed next to Dean. "I dreamed I was falling."  
  
Dean slings an arm over his shoulder. The boy is shaking, drenched in sweat. The clock by his bedside says it's 3:03 and it's been a long time since Dean had real occasion to be up at this hour. "It's alright," he mumbles into Cas's tangled mess of dark hair.  
  
"Did I fall, Dean? I think I did. I don't remember."  
  
It happens three nights in a row. Cas never remembers in the morning but it's enough to scare the living daylights out of Dean. Seven years and barely a hint of angel related dreams. Now, three in as many nights. Dean almost wants to blame the solemn black and white photograph staring out at them from the refrigerator but ever since Cas pinned it up, he's found himself incapable of taking it down.  
  
The radio is talking about the murders again. The body of the son from the slaughtered family found dead as well. The newscaster calls it a tragic end to a gruesome story. But it's not the ending. Can't be, because the guy who did it is still out there.  
  
Cas is off at school again, another week left in second grade, with the teacher who sees socially awkward and immediately links it with  _disorder_  because for her it's impossible to even consider  _fallen angel_.  
  
And just like that he gets it. Wonders why it took him this long to make the connection. He's been willfully ignoring most demonic omens for the past seven years but something about these incidents had grabbed him, forcing old instincts into being. It's only now that he realizes why it's stuck with him.  
  
All of the kids are Cas's age.   
  
He has to go back and check but it's true. He didn't spot it at first but each and every one of them were born in the early months of 2011. Roughly nine months after the Apocalypse ended.   
  
He thinks of Claire Novak sitting on her front step, blonde hair shining in the moonlight.   
  
_What are you looking for?  
  
Falling angels._  
  
If the unexplained shower of shooting stars after Sam slammed the cage on Lucifer was any indication, there'd been dozens.   
  
They're all dicks and probably deserve the messy deaths for trying to start the Apocalypse. What right did they have to join his species anyway?  
  
But Castiel is staring out at him from the picture on the refrigerator and Cas will be home in about thirty minutes. If something is after fallen angels, his kid's going to be on that list.  
  
If anyone tries something on his kid, Dean will fuck their shit up.  
  
Unfortunately that also means research time; he needs to find out everything he can on fallen angels and what kind of thing might want to prey on them. It takes him about two hours to realize the only lore anyone had on any fallen angels was lore on Lucifer.   
  
An hour later he realizes the only information he can get would need to come straight from heaven.  
  
An hour after that Cas strolls through the door, backpack slung casually over his shoulder. Dean looks up, guiltily. He's broken out most of Bobby's occult books, trying to locate the spell Castiel had used to communicate with him while he'd been in heaven.  
  
He'd forgotten when Cas would be home. He'd promised himself that he wouldn't be Dad. That he wouldn't drag his kid into that world, wouldn't make childhood a boot camp.  
  
Cas tosses his backpack on the couch and grabs an apple from the fridge before sitting at the table across from Dean where he looks at the books curiously. "What kind of monster are you looking for?" he asks.  
  
There aren't a lot of things left that can throw Dean for a loop but his eight year old kid asking him about monsters Dean's made damn sure he doesn't know exist is one of them.  
  
Taking a bite of the apple even though Dean knows it has to be difficult because of that mess of missing teeth in his mouth, Cas looks at him thoughtfully. "Was it supposed to be a secret?"  
  
Blinking owlishly, Dean barely has the presence of mind to shut the book he has in front of him. "There's no such thing as monsters, kiddo."  
  
"Yes there is," Cas replies. He's not belligerent, not unsure, just stating a fact like everyone should know it. "There was a monster in my closet and you killed it with a baseball bat."  
  
"You had a nightmare. It was just a shadow."  
  
Cas fixes him with one of his past self's  _I don't understand your inferior human mind_  looks. Dean squirms a little in his seat. "Dean, I don't understand why you're lying."  
  
Dean squeezes his eyes shut. "Ever think I might be trying to protect you?"  
  
The look on Cas's face tells him no even before the kid opens his mouth to say, "I'm eight years old. I can protect myself."  
  
"Not quite how it works there, buddy."  
  
"Is that what happened to them?" Cas has turned to look at the photograph on the wall. Bobby, Cas, Sam and Dean before they took on Lucifer.  
  
"We stopped the Apocalypse together," Dean says. Because they did. It tore Dean's family apart but they  _stopped the freaking Apocalypse._  
  
"What's the Apocalypse?"  
  
"End of the world, buddy. We beat the Devil and saved everyone."   
  
Cas's eyes go wide. "Can I hear that story?"  
  
Dean hesitates. It's been a very long time since he told this story and even then he'd only told it once, told it to the Novaks who deserved to hear more than anyone.   
  
He doesn't think he can tell that story again, not now. He stands up and ruffles Cas's hair. "Maybe later, kiddo."  
  
When Cas scrunches up his nose and takes another bite of the apple, he looks completely and impossibly human.   


* * *

  
Cas has one week left of school so while he's gone, Dean closes the salvage yard and spends the entire time reinforcing the wards on Bobby's house. Most of the wards were cast in iron, still holding strong but half of the protection had eroded in the years since Dean had moved in. Without the threat of Lucifer constantly looming over his head, Dean hadn't seen the need for it but his hands remember. His dad had traced the same signs over and over each time they moved, inadvertently leaving a trail of safety in every motel he ever visited. Dean had taken up the mantle afterwards, keeping the wards up. Keeping him and Sammy safe.  
  
Bobby's panic room houses the remnants of Dean's past life. The trunk of weapons he'd kept in the back of the Impala, Bobby's veritable arsenal of weapons and occult books, Dad's journal.  
  
The contents have started to gather dust, so much so that Dean feels his eyes start to itch the second he steps inside.  
  
He'd never planned to come into this room again. He'd wanted Cas to live the normal apple-life. The kid of life that slipped through Sam's fingers and Dean can only remember in dreams.  
  
But if he's right and there is something out there taking out fallen angels and the poor bastards that make up their families, he's not taking any chances.  
  
He's still working on confirmation about the cases. The police hasn't made the leap so there were no convenient newspaper articles about serial killers who left a trail to follow.   
  
Five cases, though. Five cases over the past three years. Families slaughtered. Kids missing. Then, a week later the kid's body.   
  
Confirming his hunch is harder then he expects. He forces himself to keep digging through reports of unexplained phenomena around the time of Lucifer's fall but around that time, the whole world had been filled with omens.  
  
In days when entire towns disappeared, there weren't a lot of people who took note of random ancient oak trees popping out of nowhere.   
  
When he needs a break, he cleans guns. When he goes into town for groceries, he picks up a couple different padlocks and the old weapons trunk reappears in the back of the Impala.   
  
He wonders what he's doing. He has no plans to leave this place. It's the first home he's had since he was four, but hunting is still in his bones. The itch to move never goes away.  
  
There's word of another set of murders in Blair, Nebraska. The kid's missing. Just like the others. A few more days and there will be another body.  
  
He buys bags of rock salt, spends an afternoon shooting cans off the top of a junked out pick up. Cas doesn't comment on any of the behavior but he notices. There's not a lot of things Cas fails to notice.  
  
There's something in the air. Something Dean hasn't felt for a long time. Something Dean hadn't even realized was missing. The air is thick and heavy with the promise of a hot summer. The kids coming back from school all have smiles on their face. Lightning flashes at twilight followed by the immediate roll of thunder.  
  
He wakes up to Cas at his bedside more than once, the kid shaken by the storms, terrified of falling. He wraps his arms around the boy, smirks up to the sky and tells him that the angels are bowling.   
  
Cas scrunches up his nose and tells him angels don't exist and if they do they definitely don't bowl.  
  
He dreams of Sam too, has been dreaming of Sam since Cas found the old picture. Sam on the rack. Sam in the passenger's seat of the Impala. Sam wrapping an arm around Jess's waist. Sam sucking Ruby's blood. He dreams of Jess on the ceiling, Mom burning as the blood drips down, Dad screaming No! for a hundred years in hellfire. He can smell in the air, the acrid smell of smoke, the cloistering fumes that turn breathing into choking, the heat of the flames.  
  
When he wakes up, the house is burning.


	3. Chapter 3

There are few contingencies neither Bobby nor Dean have planned for. The Singer homestead is build for withstanding demon attacks, zombies, ghosts and monsters. It can hold strong against almost any supernatural threat Dean has ever heard of.  
  
It is not, however, fireproof.  
  
Dean should have woken up before this. Should have smelled the smoke, the shrill of the screeching fire alarm.  
  
The sound of Cas screaming.  
  
Dean's whole world is on fire. The flames sending up shining rivets of heat that distort the air, make him feel like he's half drunk.   
  
He pulls his quilt over his head to do what he can to protect himself from the flames and stumbles towards the door. The handle is too hot to use so he lowers his shoulder and smashes through it and into the hall. Cas is in the next room, the light of the flames so bright it washes out his face, makes him look impossibly pale, more like a ghost then a boy.  
  
He barrels through the flames and into Cas's room. The boy is coughing, sweating, screaming. He picks him up just like he had on the day he found him, wraps him tight against his chest. It's the third time Dean's wrapped his family up in his arms and dragged them out of the flames. He figures it's only right after Castiel pulled him out of Hell all those years ago.  
  
The night air is like benediction. It's still hot, about eighty degrees on a day that had hit one hundred at high noon, but after the flames, it feels like the arctic. There are stars out tonight. Hundreds of thousands of them and Dean thinks of angels crashing through the ground.  
  
In his arms, Cas tries to say something but it's lost in a loud cough.  
  
Dean runs through a mental list of what could have caused the fire. It was too warm for the fireplace. The sky is too clear for lightning. Cas coughs again but recovers quickly enough to croak, "Look. Dean,  _look_."  
  
There's a shadow moving just outside the house. It looks like a man.   
  
"Fuck," Dean hisses, herding Cas toward the Impala. "We've got to fucking... shit."  
  
"Bad word," Cas chastises half-heartedly.  
  
"We've got to get out of here. Now."  
  

* * *

  
He's out of town before he realizes what really happened. He pulls to the side of the road, Cas looking at him in shock, throws open the door and pukes. "Dean," Cas says hesitantly from the side, touching his shoulder.  
  
This was never supposed to happen. Cas was never supposed to lose everything like he had when he was a kid.  
  
Then the shadow. He would have thought it was just a trick of his imagination, product of years of hunting and the Apocalypse. But Cas had seen it too, had pointed it out his which means that his paranoia and gut instincts are sound.  
  
He looks over to Cas, his pale face streaked by soot. "You all right, buddy?"  
  
"Where are we going?" Cas asks.  
  
"Do I look like a guy who has a plan?"  
  
Cas reaches up in response to switch on the radio. There's an old cassette tape in and Bon Scott screams Highway to Hell which is a bad omen if he's ever heard one. Dean reaches up and ejects it, handing the cassette to Cas. "Put in something else."  


* * *

  
He checks them into a motel about an hour away, carving dad's old protection charms into the walls while Cas washes the soot off in the shower. He has the presence of mind to call the sheriff, who still remembers Sioux Falls filled with zombies and the horseman, Death, riding through the Apocalypse. She's frantic, worried out of her mind. There are signs of arson in the house, most of the firemen think there are no survivors. Dean tells her to keep the cops out of Bobby's panic room and that they're being followed.  
  
Having law enforcement on their side is about the only saving grace of this day. He's still shaking from the panic. He's too old for this.  
  
The second he hangs up on Sheriff Mills, the phone rings again. "Hello," he growls.  
  
"Dean," a familiar, nervous voice says.  
  
"Chuck," Dean sits down hard on the too-stiff mattress. "Would a heads up have been out of the question?"  
  
"I'm sorry, what?"  
  
"I woke up and something had set my house on fire, Chuck. I liked that house. I've never lived anywhere that long in my life."  
  
"Not to mention it's the only tie you have to Bobby."  
  
"Kind of preaching to the choir here, Chuck." His head aches. He can still smell the smoke hanging in the air.   
  
"You know I hate this too. I mean I thought it was over and all of a sudden, I get angel express mail to my brain. I thought this was over. I haven't seen anything in like eight years. And then Ash goes and hacks prophet vision."  
  
"Back up a second, Ash? Dead Ash?"  
  
"Of course dead Ash. Do you know anyone else named Ash?" Chuck stutters out a laugh that goes on just a little to long to sound sane. "I cannot believe I'm having this conversation. I'm like the exposition fairy of my own novels. My editors hated Bobby because he only ever seemed to show up as a quick fix for getting the plot out of the way before we got back to the monsters and shooting."  
  
"Focus Chuck!"  
  
"Channel 107," Chuck says. "You've got to turn it on at exactly 5:22 or it's not going to work--something about a Heaven-to-Earth link up. It doesn't make a whole lot of sense and it's kind of scrambled my brain more than the old link up ever did. If it does work you think you can tell him to stop? Please? I'm kind of done with the Winchester-Apocalypse saga. I've got a new idea for a series in the pipes. Something about people in a plane crash on a mysterious island."  
  
"Chuck!"  
  
"Sorry, Dean. I'm just not cut out for this you know? Wasn't before, am not any closer now. I'm sorry about your house."  
  
"It's not your fault."  
  
"Yeah, but I kind of feel like the world tends to take a shit on you whenever it's had a crappy day. You deserve a break eventually. I just hope you get it. Say hey to Cas to me all right?"  
  
The sound of the shower stops. "He doesn't know who you are, Chuck."  
  
"Then just tell him I'm sorry."  
  
"Sure," Dean says. "I can do that."  
  
"Bye, Dean."  
  
There's a soft click from the other end of the line as Cas opens the bathroom door and stumbles into the room. There's a towel wrapped around his waist, his dark hair slicked wet and plastered against his pale skin. There are tears in his eyes. "I don't have any other clothes, Dean. They all burned up, didn't they? I don't want to put on the old ones. They smell like smoke."  
  
Dean puts down the phone and moves to his duffel bag. It pays to be prepared and he's been preparing for this whether he'd realized it or not. He tosses Cas a pair of shorts and a white t-shirt. There are two pairs of jeans and a few more child sized shirts stuffed in his bag along with his own clothes. "Cas," he says seriously. "We're going to be all right."  
  
Cas doesn't reply. He just puts on the clothes, dries off his hair and climbs into bed next to Dean. He's asleep well before Ash's appointment time and while this is something Dean would rather keep from the kid, he's also not letting Cas out of his sight.  
  
He's as precise as he can be with the connection, watching the seconds click past on his watch before making the channel change.  
  
Ash's face swims into being but it's out of focused, distorted like when Cas dialed them up in heaven. "Winchester," he drawls. "You never manage to die when I want you too."  
  
"Coming from anyone else, I'd take offense. How's life in Heaven?"  
  
"Boring as hell," Ash says. "I was half planning a takeover before I found out I could watch Earth instead. You figured out the falling angels, right? They decided it wasn't a sin anymore after you and Sam shut Lucifer down in his cage. So a whole mess of angels decide to find out how the humans do it. Only now, a few years later, someone's picked up on the fact that there are a whole lot of human angels on Earth."  
  
"Ash, I know, I've been bringing one of them up."  
  
"Oh," he squints and the TV signal goes static for a moment. "Is that Castiel? I lost track of him. Most of the people up here don't think he had enough Grace left to fall." His face swims back into relative focus. "If you know about them you've heard about the murders."  
  
"I've found five. My hunch was falling angels."  
  
"Five," the connection crackles. "Try about fifty. It's transcontinental. Something wants—" snow flashed on the television screen. One of the lights outside flickers. "Grace. It needs Grace. Kills the family and the kid heads straight for the Grace like a freaking homing beacon. The thing swoops in after grabs the Grace and kills the kid."  
  
"What's the point killing the kid if you already have the Grace?"  
  
"Seems like Grace is tailor made for a specific angel. You can't use a living angel's Grace but once they're dead it's up for grabs."  
  
Cas is asleep on the bed, barely visible under the mountain of covers. "Any idea on who?"  
  
"No, but someone's collecting a massive amount of Grace and our angel buddies up here are worried they're working to spring old Mike and Lucy from the pit."  
  
It's only Cas sleeping soundly on the bed that keeps Dean from raising his voice. "Are you freaking serious? I thought we were done with this shit."  
  
"Serious enough to dial you up from Heaven. Do you think it's easy to hack into a prophet's mind? Sounds to me like they need pretty much all the Grace they can get it."  
  
He wonders where Castiel's Grace touched down. What little was left of it that is. The thought of anyone but Cas getting his hands on it makes him almost physically ill. "You have anything else?"  
  
Ash looks over his shoulder, the movement distorting his face like one of those fish eye mirrors. "Shit, I've got a tracker on me. Stay safe, Dean." The signal surges, blowing out the colors on Ash's face. "Keep him safe."  
  
The channel switches back to snow. Dean puts it on mute and watches it for another hour but Ash's face never comes back into focus. If Dean has to guess, he probably won't see Ash again until he dies.  
  
He doesn't sleep a wink that night and when Cas wakes up they hit the road again.  
  
They stop twice in that first day. The first time at a diner for lunch where Cas examines the greasy burger in front of him with suspicious before he heaves the thing up to his lips, takes a small bite and closes his eyes to savor the taste. Dean's missed greasy diner food. Missed the parade of tired overworked waitresses charmed by his smile.   
  
When they're about ready to leave, the waitress sets a slice of pie in front of him and another in front of Cas. Apple with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. "On the house, sweetie," she says, winking at Dean. "You guys look like you could use it."  
  
Dean smiles at her. Cas says, "Thanks!"   
  
The kid digs in enthusiastically, Dean with more reserve. The pie is just warm enough, the crust a golden brown, the ice cream adding the perfect counterpart to the warmth. He thinks of Sam and Dad, a thousand diners just like this one dotted through the country but when he closes his eyes, he can barely picture it. It's harder and harder to imagine anyone but Cas sitting across from him.   
  
The second stop they make that day is an abandoned field just off the highway. Dean sets up a row of old bottles on a tree stump, unlocks the weapons trunk in the back of the Impala and teaches Cas how to shoot.  
  

* * *

  
Without any other plan, they wind up in the town where Dean had found the last of his suspected fallen angel murders.  
  
They get there on the day they find the kid's body.   
  
It's all over the news. A beautiful boy, red hair, freckles, an impish smirk. Cas turns slightly green as he watches the coroner zip up the body bag. Dean forces himself to see past that. To notice everything about the scene, pick up on the little things.   
  
Like how they found the body splayed out on an old oak tree. The oak tree that the locals say had sprung up out of nowhere almost ten years ago.  
  
They have to wait a day for the police to clear the scene but in the early hours of the morning just as the sun peaks out over the horizon, Dean and Cas make their way to the tree.  
  
"Why are we doing this?" Cas asks.   
  
They're doing this because Cas could be next. Nothing else could have dragged Dean back into the dark but it's also the one thing he won't talk about.  
  
The kid stumbles on a root of the tree, pitching forward to land in the exact spot the body was recovered yesterday. He shoots back up, scrambling towards Dean in a panic. "Let's leave. I don't like it here."  
  
Dean's learned to gage his moods over the last few years. Cas is an agreeable kid. Not a lot makes him want to run. "What is it?"  
  
"I don't know." His teeth are chattering and he shivers despite the warmth outside. "It just—It feels  _empty_. I want to leave."  
  
_Empty._  Dean had known the second he saw the newscast that the Grace wouldn't be there. Their killer is probably three states over by now. Unless of course, they're being tracked. But Dean would have noticed that.   
  
"Dean." Cas tugs on his sleeve. "Dean, I don't  _like_  it here, let's leave."  
  
He lets the boy lead him away, listens as they pile into the car and Cas tells him to  _drive_  in a voice that reminds him of the angel he used to be.  
  
Neither of them notice the man watching them from the trees.  
  


* * *

  
They drive for almost a day, only stopping when Dean's too tired to keep his eyes on the road. Cas is sleeping fitfully in the back seat, tossing from side to side and mumbling nonsense to the still night air.   
  
Dean hauls him up over his shoulder and books a room, settling Cas in one of the beds. He's exhausted but instinct forces himself to put down the same protection rituals he does every time he sleeps in a new place. By the time he's finished he's so exhausted he falls asleep face down in his pillow without even bothering to kick off his boots.  
  
When he wakes up, the television is on. Some national geographic special about lions or vast fields of sand or something. Cas is sitting on the edge of his bed, watching intently even though the sound is off. "Can't sleep?" he asks.  
  
Cas's eyes are wide and tinged red when he moves to sit next to him. Almost like he's been crying. The kid deserves a good cry. Dean remembers the fire that had robbed him of his childhood and guesses he should feel lucky Cas even still talks. He wraps a protective arm across his shoulders. "Is there anything wrong? You can tell me anything."  
  
It takes a moment for his frame to relax. When he finally turns his wide blue eyes onto him, Dean gets the feeling that this is a question he's wanted to ask for a long time. "Why do you call me Cas?"  
  
The question cuts so close to so many things Dean doesn't want to talk about. To angels, Lucifer and the Apocalypse so he ducks it as best he can. "It's a nickname, buddy. I used to call my brother Sammy instead of Sam."  
  
"I know what a nickname is," Cas snaps. "Everyone at school calls me Luke. But you call me Cas. I want to know why."  
  
"I kind of like the idea of a nickname only I get to use," Dean confesses. He never liked it when Bobby or Sam called the angel by his nickname either.   
  
Cas turns back to the screen.  
  
"Why you still awake, buddy?"  
  
His eyes don't move from the television. "I keep dreaming I'm someone else. I don't like it so I'm not sleeping. How about you? What do you dream about?"  
  
Sam on the rack. Castiel exploding. The sound Bobby's neck made when it broke. Forty years in Hell. "Puppies and sunshine."  
  
"Scary puppies?" Cas asks, all wide eyes and faux innocence.   
  
"You caught me. Puppies have me running screaming through the streets."  
  
Cas gives him a tired sort of smile. "I'm not going back to sleep tonight."  
  
"You know, I don't think I am either."  
  
The don't talk anymore, just sit there shoulder to shoulder, watching the images flicker past the television screen until the sun finally comes up on the horizon and Dean declares it time to go. 

* * *

  
There are stretches of time where he can pretend its nothing but a road trip. Cas has scarcely been out of South Dakota but Dean grew up in highway diners and the open road. He should have taken Cas on a road trip far before this. Gone to the Grand Canyon, the Everglades, the Washington Monument and the Empire State Building. He seems fascinated by everything outside his window, like looking through the world in a whole new set of eyes.   
  
It's hot outside. The kind of melt your skin off heat that Dean used to imagine came from Hell before he went there and saw for himself. The whole world's smoldering, but inside the Impala, the AC's blaring, Dean's teaching Cas the joys of rock and roll and they both feel more at home then they have in years. It's a sneaky kind of heat, the whole damn world on a slow burn. No murders, no nothing, but Dean still has the cloying scent of smoke in his hair and the curling fear in his belly that infuses him with the need to keep driving.   
  
There are little things though. Little things that remind him this is not where he is supposed to be. Somewhere along the way, Cas must have pried off the army man Sam wedged in the ashtray because Dean keeps subconsciously looking to the empty spot where it used to be. Cas keeps waking up in the middle of the night with haunted eyes and a thousand-yard stare. By day, Dean teaches him what he can. Cas is a terrible shot but nearly all eight year olds are terrible shots unless they start at six. He takes to the protective symbols. Then again, Castiel always had a knack for that. Just ask Dean's ribs.  
  
Cas is settling into a routine, Dean falling back into habits. He starts seeing hunts like a man seeing water in the desert. He can't go though, can't even think of it with Cas beside him instead of Sam. He's not going to become his dad.  
  
So it continues, mile after mile, the never-ending road trip fleeing a burnt out shell of what used to be a home.  
  
Eventually, Dean catches wind of a case so big he can't ignore it. A series of murder victims missing their eyes. His first thought is angels but then he catches wind of some demonic omens in the surrounding areas.  
  
Demons in Detroit. He hates that freaking city.  
  
One thing's for certain, he can't ignore this one, but he can't exactly charge into danger with Cas in tow.   
  
Claire Novak goes to Michigan State University, about an hour and a half away. He gives her a call during one of their pit stops as Cas runs through the tiny green area, all too eager to stretch his legs. She's in an apartment off campus and when Dean says they're going to stop by, she pledges to get her roommate out for the night.  
  
Dean spends the next hour explaining to Cas about Claire and Jimmy without using the words  _vessel_  and  _angel_. Cas listens with the same intensity he listens to everything and Dean can see why a teacher might mistake it for some sort of disorder. Cas is the only kid he's ever met who has this kind of laser focus.  
  
He's smart. As sharp as Sam was as a kid but he has more restraint in what to ask. He's never asked Dean about the handprint on his shoulder and he doesn't ask why Jimmy wasn't in their end of the world line up. Dean can see the question hanging on his lips but while Sammy would have blurted it out, Cas never does.  
  
Claire Novak greets him at the door warmly, pulling him into a tight hug before turning to Cas. Dean clears his throat and says, "Claire, Lucas. Lucas, Claire."  
  
They stare at each other for a long moment and it's so intense, Dean just wants to laugh. Finally Claire sticks out a hand to Cas who steps just a little too close before he grabs it. Claire smiles and says, "I've got an old Wii in the living room."  
  
Even though he used to be an angel, Cas is still an eight-year-old boy so he scrambles excitedly to their living room as Claire turns to Dean, the smile dropping from her face. "What the fuck, Dean?"  
  
Dean starts. She's grown up since the last time he saw her, standing at five-nine in bare feet. Her hair is no longer the blond of her youth but brown. She's solidly built in the way neither of her parents really were. So much so that Dean suspects more than a few hours a week at the gym. Her face is only vaguely recognizable as the little girl he knew almost a decade ago.   
  
She doesn't look like Jimmy at all. Which is going to help him dodge about a hundred of Cas's questions.  
  
Claire snaps her fingers right in front of his face, drawing his focus back to reality. "I knew you had a kid. Which okay, I'm sure there are people crazy enough to let a Winchester adopt but you didn't tell me he was a carbon copy of  _my dad_."  
  
It's such a stupid thing to have overlooked that Dean just gapes at her for a moment. Her face goes from annoyed to furious in just a split second. "You didn't even realize it did you? It didn't even cross your mind. Because Dad was nothing more than the dude Cas was wearing if you even though of him at all."  
  
"Claire," Dean says.  
  
"Fucking  _don't_ ," Claire hisses. "My dad  _died_  and half the time you  _don't even remember_."  
  
He catches her by the arm and whispers, "I'm sorry." She always sounds so calm on the surface. Every letter or phone call they've exchanged had told Dean she was happy. He forgets about how the war scarred people other than his family. He's so used to carrying his own burden, it doesn't even occur to him that the rest of the world isn't used to it. She lets him pull her into a hug.  
  
"He's Castiel isn't he? He's definitely not dad but I was possessed by the guy and he feels the same."  
  
In the living room, Cas lets out a whoop as he wins in some video game. "He doesn't know and I'm not going to be the one to fucking tell him."  
  
"Why him though? Why him and not my dad?"  
  
Dean knows it's not fair but he can't bring himself to say he's sorry it wasn't the other way around.   
  

* * *

  
Dean hates Detroit. He hated it before Sam walked into the Devil's lair and still hates it now.  
  
He hates it even more when he realizes he's fallen straight into a trap.  
  
There is no case in Detroit. He hangs around for about ten hours before it hits him like a ton of bricks.  _There's nothing here. There's nothing here at all._  
  
He leaves Detroit in screeching tires and makes the drive back to Claire's apartment in an hour flat.  
  
He's too late.  


* * *

  
There's an ambulance outside Claire's apartment when he rolls up. Dean has nothing but a stream of obscenities running through his mind. "Claire," he calls, pushing the car door open. "Cas!"  
  
The scene is swarming with cops, a few random bystanders standing, drenched in sweat as the watch the scene unfold. "Do you know what happened?" Dean asks an older lady, who shakes her head and leaves.  
  
"Dean Winchester?" a voice asks.  
  
Dean turns around to find a girl with red rimmed eyes, her arms wrapped tightly across her chest. "Maia," she says. "Claire's roommate. I, uh. I found her when I got in this morning. She was beat up pretty bad."  
  
"Is she all right? Is Cas all right? I'm going to fucking  _murder_ anyone who touched them."  
  
"There's more than one type of blood in there. Police say she put up a fight and the paramedics told me the worst of it's a concussion."  
  
Dean's almost afraid to ask. "And Cas?"  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Cas. Lucas. She was looking after my  _kid_ for the night."  
  
"There wasn't anyone else when I got there," Maia says. "I'm sorry, I didn't even know we should be looking."  
  
Dean feels weak in the knees.  
  
He can't lose this. Can't lose Cas like he's lost everyone else. This one's on him. Cas is eight freaking years old and Dean hadn't been there to protect him.  
  
"Claire told me to get this to you." Maia presses something tiny and hard into Dean's palm. "I don't fucking know what it means."  
  
Dean does though. In his hands is the army man Sam had wedged into the Impala's ash tray when he was about four years old. The toy that had disappeared sometime between the fire and  _this._    
  
"It's been following me," Dean realizes, putting his hand over his head to remind himself to breath. "Ever since---fuck  _months_ and I never saw a damn thing."  
  
"Dean," Maia tries.  
  
Only Dean's already moving back toward the Impala. The thing may have Cas but it won't kill him unless it has his Grace.  
  
Which means Dean has a very narrow window of opportunity. Cas doesn't know a damn thing about Grace which means there's a chance that the thing that took him is equally clueless.  
  
But Dean knows exactly where Cas fell.  
  
Lawrence, Kansas.  
  
He's made this drive before. Made it nine years ago chasing after his brother and is making it now for the boy who is effectively his son.   
  
It can't end in the same way. He holds on to that small grain of hope. Cas has never been to Lawrence. He wouldn't be able to lead the thing there. Wouldn't know.  
  
But he thinks of Ash who phoned him out of heaven to warn him that when separated from their human caretakers, these fallen angels were like homing beacons for their Grace.  
  
He pushes the pedal down. 

* * *

  
Lawrence looks the same. He swears the place exists in a freaking time loop because Lawrence always looks the same. He half expects to turn the corner to see his mom and his dad walking hand in hand down the street or Lucifer and Michael dueling it out in the cemetery. His skin feels like it's alive, thousands of insects buzzing under his skin.  
  
There are words on his tongue, an exorcism, a benediction, a prayer.  
  
The cemetery is colder then the rest of the world, the entire country's been in a heat snap but the cemetery is cold.  
  
It's deja vu, the same tape is in the Impala, vestiges of Cas's last choice. The cemetery even looks the same.   
  
Cas's Grace has to be around here somewhere. He finds his feet moving toward landmarks.   
  
The spot where Sam—Lucifer—beat him into the ground.   
  
The spot where Bobby fell.  
  
The spot where Castiel exploded.  
  
He closes his eyes, hoping that the cessation of visuals would quell the memories fighting their way to the surface. It doesn't work.   
  
The cemetery looks dead and barren. No giant oak that sprang up out of nowhere like Anna. Dean thinks that's wrong somehow. Cas's Grace should have made something magnificent. He helped save the world after all.  
  
The only sign of life is a weathered, beaten rosebush. Dean finds himself strangely drawn to it, this stubborn solitary speck of life in the vast wasteland the Devil once claimed as his battlefield. Dean crouches down next to it. The bush is a mess of thorns, only sporting one solitary rosebud, standing out defiantly in the barren field. It's almost a pure white in color, perfectly in bloom. Touching it with the tip of his finger, Dean feels a rush of warmth.  
  
It feels like Cas somehow. Castiel, the angel and Lucas, the boy. A mess of oddities, assurances, strength in the face of impossible odds. He hadn't had a lot of Grace left when he fell, but this tiny sliver had survived--keeps surviving--despite the odds.  
  
"Oh," a voice says from behind him. "I was looking for that."  
  
He knows the voice before he turns around. Had known what he would find here since Claire's friend pressed the plastic toy in his hand. "Sam," he says hoarsely.  
  
Sam looks good. Looks just like he did the last time Dean saw him, when Lucifer had slipped in and worn him to the prom. He'd almost forgotten this. How tall he was. How the stupidly long hair keeps spilling into his eyes.  
  
"Dean!" another voice calls and only then does he realize that Sam has Cas squirming in his arms. "Help!"  
  
A rush of relief flushes through Dean before he can stop it, because here's his brother alive and the boy who's practically his son safe.  
  
But he knows in his heart Cas is not safe. There's pure terror in his eyes and Dean has to back track to think how long Sam's been in the pit. How long they had to turn him. Dean was there for four months and forty years.  
  
Sam's at nine years Earth time. Dean doesn't want to think how long that is in Hell. There's not even the barest spark of recognition in his brother's eyes.   
  
"Let him go," Dean orders.  
  
Cas strains toward him, eyes wide and frantic. Dean's perversely pleased to see Sam's arms lined with newly healing scabs from Cas's nails. "I never would have been able to pick up this little one's scent if it wasn't for you."  
  
"Christo," Dean snarls.  
  
There's no flinch, no flash of black in his eyes and part of Dean rejoices. Part of him is celebrating, a part of him long dead that chants _Sammysammysammy_. But there's another part of him too. A part of him that never existed before burning in a white hot rage that promises,  _if he hurts Cas, I'll kill him._  
  
It seems like he's finally found the willingness to kill his own brother--only about a decade too late.  
  
The angels would be so freaking happy for him.  
  
Cas finally manages to squirm free and darts for Dean who bends over to catch him, wrapping his arms around the boy. All the time he keeps his focus trained on the thing that looks like his brother.  
  
"Do you have any idea how many times I walked past this on my way up here? Dozens of time on the same mission, looking for Grace but I never noticed this."  
  
There are so many things Dean wants to say to that. Wants to tell him how many things had died because they'd underestimated Team Free Will. Wants to tell him how the three of them stood up against heaven, hell, angels and devils and  _won._  
  
Wants to tell him that  _he should already know._  
  
"You're not my brother," Dean hisses.  
  
"Never claimed to be," Sam replies, still staring at Cas like he's meat. "I've got a brother, Adam. Trapped in Hell because of something I did. So now I'm fixing it."  
  
It hits him like a bolt of lightning. Sam  _doesn't remember._  
  
"Christo," Dean tries again, louder, just to be sure.   
  
"I'm not a demon," Sam says. "Demons can't slip in and out of Hell unless they're at a gate. This isn't a gate."  
  
"But you're just that good, right?"  
  
Sam's face curls into a smirk and Dean fights irrational panic.  _It's happening again--I just got him back--Tear his throat out for scaring Cas--Sammysammysammysammy._  
  
"Step aside. I don't need to kill you. I just want the boy and his Grace."  
  
Dean steps forward, positioning Cas behind him. His voice is shaking. He's drawn Ruby's knife from his waistband, the familiar weight an empty comfort in his hands. "You're not touching my son."  
  
"I don't have a choice," Sam bites.  
  
"So you have to murder ex-angels? What the hell, man. Angels themselves may be a bunch of dicks but you slaughtered a bunch of eight-year-olds."  
  
_You were going to slaughter Cas._  
  
Sam spreads his arms and flairs his nostril. It's such a familiar expression that Dean's heart clenches, but Cas is hiding behind him and nothing and no one hurts Cas. Not even Sam. "What was I supposed to do? I've been in Hell for a long time. Longer than I can remember. I get the idea that I was the one who trapped  _those angels_ there. They realized I was the only one who could sneak out of Hell so suddenly I'm the one who does the errands. If it were just me, I would have told them to go to Hell." He snorts. "Or you know, stay where you are, but Adam doesn't get out unless they get out and there's not much I won't do for family."  
  
The word cut him deep. Sam is family. So is Adam. Cas peaks out from behind him, clutching the hand that isn't holding the knife. "How long have you been there?"  
  
Sam's lip curls. "I lost track after four hundred years."  
  
Cas is eight and four hundred years sounds like eternity. Dean knows it's longer than that. Four months was forty years. Nine years he doesn't even want to consider.  
  
"Must have been rough." Dean knows how woefully inadequate the sentiment is but he also knows there are no words fit to describe it.  
  
"You have no idea."  
  
Dean licks his lips. It feels wrong to stand here and talk when every bone in his body screams at him to move move  _move_. Half of him still wants to stab this man, his brother for daring to touch Cas. The other half wants nothing more than to pull him into a tight hug. Paralyzed between the two instincts, he can't do anything  _but_ talk. "I was there forty. One of those angels you've been killing pulled me out."  
  
"Forty years," Sam scoffs like it was nothing. And for him it probably was. "Do you know what it's like to be a human in Hell for a century? Two? To be carved up and screaming and  _not allowed a chance to come off the rack_. Because Lucifer and Michael need out of the pit and the only one who can slip through the cage is a human. Do you know what it's like to come up here and do their freaking errands and know that I'm going to have to go back? Know that I'm going to keep going back until they have enough Grace to spring their own lock or else me and my little brother are stuck there forever."  
  
"But your not," Cas says, surprising them both.  
  
He's standing a little straighter then Dean is used to seeing, his posture somehow stiffer, his voice still the high pitch of a little boy but somehow more grave.   
  
Sam fixes him with a glare that could kill on the spot but Cas holds his gaze. The kid doesn't understand taboos about eye contact. Never had. "You're not stuck there forever," Cas says. "You're up here and you don't want to go back."  
  
Dean sees where it's going soon enough to finish for him. "So don't go back."  
  
"My brother's there," Sam says after a long moment. "I can't leave him."  
  
Cas tilts his head sideways, and says like it's the simplest thing in the world, "So take him with you."  
  
The predatory gleam in Sam's eye vanishes and he looks genuinely confused. Cas still hasn't blinked. A slow smile stares sneaking up on Sam's face. He takes a step toward Cas and Dean steps between them, brandishing the knife but Sam's suddenly just  _gone_ , like he was nothing more then an apparition.  
  
Cas turns to around back towards Dean. Just for a second the shadows from the cloud fall oddly across his shoulders and he thinks he can see wings. The same wings he caught a glimpse of in that warehouse more than a decade ago but they're gone as soon as he blinks and all that's left is little eight year old Cas crouching down to examine the grizzled rose bush. He extends a finger almost hesitantly to the tip of the white rose.  
  
Dean's heart is beating in his throat. He can't lose Cas, no when Sam seems to have slipped through his fingers. "What's going on, buddy."  
  
Glancing over his shoulder, Cas says, "This feels like it's mine."  
  
"Yeah?" Dean tries to keep the magnitude of the situation out of his voice. "You going to take it?"  
  
His hand hovers an inch away from the rose's perfectly white petals before pulling back and taking Dean's hand instead. "I don't think I want it," he says.  
  
Dean takes a deep breath of something that feels like relief. "Good."


	4. Epilogue

It's all over the news.  
  
A cemetery in Lawrence Kansas nearly blown to hell. Even though there were no causalities, the explosion was still big enough to attract attention from national networks.  
  
Dean watches the coverage from a dingy motel room off I-95. He's taking Cas to Washington DC because he should have done that years ago but he can't take his eyes away from the television.   
  
Cas comes out of the bathroom, watching toweling off his hair and pauses next to the bed. "Dean?" he says and when Dean doesn't react he tries, "Dad?"  
  
"What's up, Cas?"  
  
"Is that your brother breaking out?" Cas asks as he pulls a t-shirt on over his head. The heat outside has finally broken and the cool breeze drifting in through the open window feels like benediction.   
  
"Both of my brothers if I had to guess."  
  
Cas nods solemnly and sits down next to him, a little closer than normal but he doesn't say a thing because after a fire and a kidnapping, Cas deserves to be just a little bit clingy. "What are we going to do?"  
  
"Road trip, right, buddy?" Dean ruffles his hair. "Seeing the country. Just you and me. Maybe we'll hit Disney World."  
  
"What about Sam?" Cas demands.  
  
"After he killed a bunch of people, kidnapped you and was ready and willing to kill us both?" Dean sighs and switches off the TV. "I'm not so big on running into the guy again."  
  
Cas tilts his head sideways. "But you miss him."  
  
"He's my brother, Cas. Of course I miss him. We saved the world and he went to Hell for it." Cas is quiet for a long moment and suddenly Dean  _gets it_. Outside of him, Cas has never had family before. "Cas, what do you think we should do?"  
  
Dean knows what he's going to say before he opens his mouth and loves him for it.  
  
"I think we should go find him."  
  
He slings his arm over Cas's shoulder in a one-armed hug. "Then I guess we better hit the road."

**Author's Note:**

> Again, the coolest part of this story was attempt_unique's fantastic art. [[Link](http://attempt-unique.livejournal.com/36766.html)]


End file.
